


Assumptions

by bgharison



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-26 19:59:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7588066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bgharison/pseuds/bgharison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People don’t seem to have too much trouble getting past the obvious assumption that two alpha males, one a Navy SEAL and one a tough Jersey detective -- with an ex-wife and daughter, no less -- are straight, work-only partners.  But it amuses Steve, really, that there are so many lingering assumptions beyond the obvious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Given the sheer number of people who’ve asked if they were married, for crying out loud, Steve doesn’t think people would be too surprised to find out that he and Danny are . . . partners.  At least, no more surprised than he is to find himself -- the product of conservative parents and the US Navy -- mid-life, DADT repealed, and with a loud Jersey cop as his . . . partner.  

He’s still getting accustomed to the vocabulary, okay?

No, people don’t seem to have too much trouble getting past the obvious assumption that two alpha males, one a Navy SEAL and one a tough Jersey detective -- with an ex-wife and daughter, no less -- are straight, work-only partners.  But it amuses Steve, really, that there are so many lingering assumptions beyond the obvious.

Not that he has the time or inclination, really, to correct any assumptions of a sleazy heroin dealer currently in the back of the car.

And he’s chatty, the drug dealer, as they drive back to the palace for booking.  Trying to get under their skin, goading them.  Apparently, their undercover behavior in the club had been a little _too_ convincing, he’s informed them, and now he’s amusing himself with a running litany of -- insults?  Are they supposed to be insults?  

“I bet you are _always_ in the driver’s seat, am I right?  Yeah, big guy?  All those muscles and tats, I bet you just love taking control, right?” the guy is rambling, half strung out.

Steve’s not insulted.  Amused, and if he’s honest, glancing at Danny, at that slow, secret smile, a little turned on.

It continues in the interrogation room.  Kono has joined them, because this is something she’s still learning -- and Steve rolls his eyes when Danny pauses to remind them, just outside the door, that they’re trying to teach Kono proper interrogation techniques, and that she is not a Navy SEAL and that here, in the civilized world, there are procedures, and protocol.

And the guy starts up again, a running commentary under the strange blue lights.  “What took you guys so long?  Did you take a few minutes in the locker room?  Did you at least lock the door before you put the blond on his knees for you?”

Steve glances at Kono; he could care less, he’s heard it all, but Kono is a lady, damn it, and . . . well, never mind.  Kono’s eyes are wide, and she’s unselfconsciously running her tongue over her lower lip.  Because, in addition to being completely badass, Kono is also a special brand of crazy.  She had known about him and Danny being . . . partners before Steve had even known about it, and when he’d called her into his office to tell her -- _after hours, unofficially, this is awkward but I think you should know_ \-- she’d laughed until she’d snorted indelicately, and patted his cheek affectionately, and told him he was so cute and oblivious.  So no, he didn’t need to worry about Kono’s delicate sensibilities being offended now.

She’s not offended.  Steve realizes, glancing at Danny with his patented Not My Fault face, that she’s a little turned on.

“It’s a co-ed bathroom, and I like to watch,” Kono drawls, her voice going into that register that she usually saves for undercover.  And that’s it, it’s pretty much over at that point, because the sleazy heroin dealer’s brain short-circuits and he forgets to be cool and slick, and gives up every shred of information they need, while Kono nods and tilts her head at him and twirls that silky chocolate hair around one long, delicate finger.

“You’re welcome, boys,” Kono says breezily, as she flicks her hair back and saunters out of the interrogation room.  She turned back, eyes flashing darkly, and looks at Danny.  Straight, unmistakably at Danny.  “I’ll go get started on the paperwork.   _Boss_.”

Oh.   _Oh_.  So, Kono apparently isn’t operating under any mistaken assumptions.  And who’s surprised, really?

And they both have to take a moment, outside the door, in the empty hallway and . . . adjust.  They’re only human.

“What just happened?” Steve asks, and if his voice is a little strangled, Danny graciously ignores it.  “I thought we were supposed to be teaching her interrogation technique?”

Danny looks at him.  “I don’t know, _big guy_ .  You’re the one _in control_.”  His voice is full of amusement, his blue eyes crinkling in fond affection.  “You just love it, don’t you, letting people assume?”

Steve grins and shrugs because it’s true.

Danny grins and shrugs because it doesn’t matter.

 

Because, in reality, people’s assumptions would be shattered.  Decimated.  Utterly destroyed.

 

Once Steve had gathered up the nerve to question the first and most obvious assumption about himself, really, everything was up for question, wasn’t it?  It all came back to that moment, that one moment when Steve, still secure in his alpha male, heterosexual self-image, jacked Danny’s arm behind his back, pushing him down, making him _submit_ , damn it . . . and then in that very same moment, Danny rocked his world with a sharp right hook, and everything Steve had ever believed about himself was suddenly up for debate.

Because, in reality, the one thing Steve needed most in his world was to not have to be so perfectly strong and in control twenty four hours a day.

So people can assume what they want, but in reality, it’s Danny who curves himself around Steve at night, his hand resting warm and weighty on Steve’s hip, or splayed across those ridiculous abs.  What people don’t notice, because of those ubiquitous dress shirts, is that Danny’s broad shoulders and strong biceps easily rival Steve’s; which means that in the quiet hours of the night, when Steve is shaking from a nightmare, it’s Danny’s strong arms that are wrapped around him, soothing him.

Because they’d danced around it, slinging innuendo and loaded glances and “babe” until Danny flung open the back of the truck in North Korea.  And when they finally landed at Hickam, it was Danny who slid behind the wheel of the Silverado as if he had done it a thousand times, Danny who steered them home, Danny who held him in the shower and carefully washed away the blood, and the grime, and it was Danny who finished taking him apart, piece by piece, and then slowly started putting him back together again.

So every day, Steve is the consummate commander:  barking out orders, disregarding things like procedure and protocol and personal safety.  He can understand why it would be easy to assume that continues off the clock, but then, people don’t see the exhausted slump of his shoulders when they drag themselves back to Steve’s house after a rough case . . . their house, now, but that’s new, Danny’s only moved in a few weeks ago . . . and it’s Danny who locks the door, sets the alarm, and holds out his arms.

“Come’ere,” he says, and Steve simply . . . goes.  Goes into Danny’s arms.  And it should feel ridiculous, and backward, that he rather towers over Danny and yet it’s Danny who is holding him, telling him that it’s okay, that they’ll get the bastards tomorrow.  Or Steve holds it together until he gets in the shower, but just, and it’s Danny who slips in behind him, and keeps him from crashing face first on the slippery tile.  

It would be easy for people to assume that Steve is the one giving orders, staying in control. Unless, of course, they see the two of them staggering home at sunrise, right after telling someone their father will never come home.  Or their mother.  In that case, they would see Danny gently propel Steve to the chairs overlooking the water; they would see the way he stands over Steve, his hands a quiet, steady weight on Steve’s shaking shoulders.

And when Steve walks -- no, _swaggers_ \-- onto a crime scene, all combat boots and thigh holsters and honest-to-God grenades, it would be easy to assume that he swaggers that way up the stairs and into the bedroom.  

And, okay, that would be true sometimes because, seriously.  It’s Steve.  

People might be surprised to know that more often, it’s Danny swaggering up the stairs while Steve is up there, waiting for him, because Danny sent him to the bedroom ten minutes ago with _explicit instructions_ on how he wants to find him.  And Steve is so, _so very good at following orders_.  

Because, in reality, Danny is a toppy topper who tops.

Then there are the days -- many of them -- when Steve whips off his shirt to do some super SEAL shit and it would be so easy to assume that Steve is the adventurous one, that Danny -- blond, all-American, previously married, proud father -- is positively vanilla next to six feet of sun-kissed, exotically tattooed Navy SEAL.  But while Steve was being raised by the aforementioned conservative parents and the US Navy, Danny . . . well.  Danny spent several years in college completely and utterly unhindered by DADT, much to Steve’s quivering, pleading, _gasping_ amazement.  

Danny might look like sunshine, fresh air, and lemonade, and Steve is sure as hell not going to disabuse anyone of that assumption. No, sir; he will be damn happy to keep Danny’s bent toward moonlight, musk, and bourbon all to himself.  

Steve will happily, desperately let people assume anything they want; anything that will keep Danny under the radar of everyone else.

Because, when Steve’s assumptions about himself were shattered by Danny’s right hook, apparently, his assumption that he could handle anything life threw at him by the sheer force of his will was shattered as well.  Somewhere between that right hook and WoFat’s cattle prod, Steve had become attached and dependent on someone else for the first time in his life.

And Steve doesn’t assume, not for one minute, that he will be able to go on, to function, to keep breathing, if anything ever happens to Danny.

  
If that reality is just a bit terrifying, well, Steve assumes that’s what happens when you have a . . . partner.


	2. Chapter 2 -- For Real and Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've wanted to come back to this little story, but I was waiting for just the right inspiration. This happened. Let me know how it works.

 

The assumptions continue when people realize that this thing -- this  _ thing _ between Danny and Steve is for real.

 

Like,  _ forever _ for real.

 

This one trips up Kono, even, which is remarkable.

 

“Danny, I’ve been thinking,” she says one day, quietly, when it’s just the two of them in the office.  Danny’s wrenched his bad knee again, and Kono is fighting off a vicious migraine.  It’s premenstrual, which Danny knows, because he keeps up with these things -- growing up with sisters, and then a female partner, and then years of marriage taught him a thing or three about self-preservation.

 

“We all cower in fear when you or Steve say that, you know this, right?” Danny quips.

 

Kono pulls a face but then smiles at him, soft and fond.  “You know, they legalized same-sex marriage in Hawaii.  In 2013, actually.  So, you gonna propose to Steve, or what?”

 

Danny isn’t surprised by her question.  He’s not surprised that she thinks he’s the one that would be interested in legalizing and formalizing their relationship.  After all, he’s the one that grew up with an intact family, that did the whole marriage-and-kid thing.  Steve -- well, Steve was a functional orphan at sixteen, did the friends with benefits thing with Catherine for (too many) years.  

 

There’s also the fact that Kono knows that Danny takes the . . .  _ lead _ in many aspects of the relationship.   _ How _ she knows this -- Danny chooses to chalk that up to uncanny female intuition.  

 

Though he wonders, sometimes, from the way she smirks at him in the mornings, if he should sweep for bugs.

 

“What makes you think I want to get married?  Again?” he asks her, smiling.

 

“Well . . . don’t you?” she responds.  She slouches comfortably in his office, tossing one long leg over the arm of his chair and propping her head on her hand on the other arm.  She’s apparently oblivious to the careless sensuality of her posture.

 

Danny’s pretty sure that she’s so enamored with the idea of him and Steve, she forgets that they’re both, technically, bi.  Either that, or she simply accepts that her team is the one group of men who allow her move through life without having to censor herself.

 

“No, babe, I don’t,” he says.  “I’ve done that.  Broke my heart in a million pieces.  Steve and I . . . we work together, professionally.  DADT has been repealed, but he’s still Navy.  He already slowed down his career to create Five-O.  I don’t want to affect his career any further.  Besides -- I’m good with the way things are.  I don’t need a ring or a piece of paper to define us.  You know Steve.  When he’s all in, he’s all in.  I don’t have any doubts.”

 

#*#*#*#*#

 

Everybody knows everybody in Honolulu, or so it seems, so Steve waits until he’s on a reserves weekend, stateside, to go shopping.  One of his fellow officers recommended the store -- quiet, refined, specializing in estate and classic pieces.

 

The shop owner nods and smiles when Steve expresses an interest in an engagement ring.  

 

“Certainly,” she says, and Steve likes her immediately.  Interested but not intrusive, her smile is genuine and her voice is a husky alto.  She’s pleasant but not obnoxiously chipper.  “A diamond solitaire?  Traditional engagement ring . . . or . . .” she eyes his tattoos and tilts her head.  “Hmm, maybe traditional with a twist?”

 

“Traditional with a big twist,” Steve says, grinning.  He doesn’t fault her for her assumption.  He is, after all, six plus feet of muscle, towering over her in combat boots and cargo pants.  “I’m working up the nerve to propose to my partner.  His name is Daniel.”

 

“Nice twist,” she says, and she grins up at him.  “Law enforcement?  Military?”

 

“Both, for me,” he says.  “Danny is a detective.”  

 

“Ah.  You’ll want silicone rings to wear on duty then,” she said.  “Matching engagement rings?”

 

He thought of that for a moment.  “No, I don’t think so.  I was thinking just the one ring, for him.  Is that weird?”  It wasn’t like he knew a lot of guys that were couples.  And the ones he did . . . well, he’d been with Catherine at the time, so had hadn’t paid attention.

 

“Not weird,” she said firmly.  “Lovely, in fact.  Okay, so . . . for starters, are we thinking gold, silver, platinum . . . titanium?”

 

“Titanium . . . “ Steve said, thinking about it.  “He was married before.  Gold ring.  Yeah, let’s start with titanium . . .”

 

#*#*#*#*#

 

Danny, as a detective -- and a damn good one -- knew better than to ever, ever assume.  Assumptions made people miss obvious clues, blow cases, screw up evidence, and let the bad guys get off.

 

He prided himself on never assuming anything.

 

Except maybe, just maybe, assuming that Steve didn’t want to get married.

 

So Danny was shocked --  _ shocked _ \-- when he came home late from work to see Steve’s truck in the driveway.

 

“Steven?” he called out, loosening his tie and divesting himself of badge and service weapon as he came through the front door.  “Thought you weren’t due home until tomorrow, babe?  I stayed late to get caught up, I woulda come home.”

 

The house was quiet, but he caught a glimpse of flickering lights on the lanai.  Curious, he stepped out, and gaped, speechless.

 

“Steve?” he managed to breathe out.

 

The lanai was awash in candlelight from dozens of candles, their flames dancing in the gentle ocean breeze.  And Steve, standing there, hands in his pockets . . . the pockets of the jeans that Danny loved so much, but Steve didn’t wear them often, because, as he’d explained earnestly -- ‘The pockets don’t  _ hold _ stuff, Danny.’  After that, they’d been dubbed ‘date night jeans’ because a) Danny loved them and two) Danny stubbornly and inexplicably insisted that Steve not carry small explosives  _ on their dates _ .

 

And Danny had assumed that Steve was still in transit home from San Diego, not here, much less here surrounded by candles, wearing date night jeans and a white button down shirt, standing on their lanai in his bare feet looking as nervous as he had the night that Danny had explained to Gracie that she would notice that he and Uncle Steve now shared a bedroom and . . . 

 

“Oh, babe,” Danny breathed out, and he was wrong.  He was totally wrong, when he assumed Steve didn’t want to get married, and even more wrong when he told Kono that he didn’t want to get married, because if that’s not what Steve was up to, he was going to be incredibly disappointed.

 

“Danny,” Steve said, and he kept his hands in his pockets, because they didn’t do so much of the hand-holding stuff.  “We’ve never talked about getting married.  I know you’ve been married before, and if you don’t want to again, I understand, and it won’t change how I feel about you.  But I’ve never been married, because until you, I never imagined wanting to spend the rest of my life with someone.  We could get married, and I’d really, really love to be married to you, Danny.”

 

Danny felt his knees go weak with relief, and Steve was there in one long stride, his strong hands grabbing at his biceps and steadying him.

 

“Yeah,” Danny said.

 

“Yeah?” Steve murmured, his eyes going wide.  “Yeah, Danny?  You’re sure?”

 

Danny stared up at him.  “As sure as I love Gracie, Steve.  That sure.”

 

#*#*#*#*#

 

Chin had assumed that with Danny already having a child, and Steve’s dual careers in Five-O and the Naval Reserves, and the general insanity that was their life, that the couple wouldn’t pursue adding children to their family.

 

He was shocked, then, to see a look of significance pass between Steve and Danny in the emergency room, when the nurse sighed and offered to call child services for the toddler and infant bandaged and sedated in the trauma room.  Five-O had pulled them out of a horrific meth-lab-gone-wrong scenario.  The addiction had claimed their parents long before the fatal explosion.  Kono was still in the locker room trying to regain her composure.

 

“Yeah?” Danny said, raising his eyebrows at Steve.

 

“Yeah,” Steve said, nodding.  He turned to the nurse.  “We’ll call CPS.  We already have a family lined up for them.”

 

Chin looked back and forth between Danny and Steve.  “Your hearts are in the right place, guys, but you can’t just take kids home from the hospital with you.”

 

Danny smiled.  “You can, actually, when you’ve been approved as foster parents for children, including victims of trauma and domestic violence, up to the age of fourteen.  The process takes about a year.”

 

“What -- you -- seriously?” Chin asked, breaking into a huge smile.  “Wow.”

 

Kono came into the room, wiping her eyes.   She took in the scene in front of her:  Steve and Danny, bent over the beds, carefully stroking tiny cheeks.  And Chin, standing, his arms folded, and a soft smile on his face.

 

“Kono,” Chin said quietly, “looks like we’re going to be Uncle Chin and Auntie Kono.”

 

“No shit?” Kono whispered.  “I mean, I figured they’d have kids.  I just assumed that they’d find a way to defy the laws of biology, and that Danny would manage to knock Steve up.”


End file.
